lonely in gorgeous / marceline solo.

marceline jeon .

"when you quantify my love, you may find it's not enough.
but that's okay with me. another day i'll see it through, i'll see it through."

I've never been inside the town hall before. Once the Reaping concluded, two Peacekeepers led me inside. They weren't all too gentle, even though I didn't put up any resistance; they wrapped their gloved hands around my arms and yanked me around and through the doors that led off stage. Between my name being called and being led in here, I don't remember much. I've been frozen. Maybe that's why they grabbed hold of me like that. If they hadn't, I probably would have stayed there until I calcified; becoming a brand new long, skinny, lonely fixture overlooking the town square of District 8. Now, they've forced me to move farther along my death trajectory.

As they closed the doors behind me, one of the Peacekeepers, who had a young voice and an even younger sounding voice, told me, "Your family will arrive to say goodbye soon. Then it's off to the Capitol for you."

The door clicked shut behind him. A second click; a lock. I'm standing now, staring at it; deep brown, good quality. Better quality than anything I've seen before in my life. Do they really think I'll run? I finally take a look around the room. The whole place, in fact, feels out of place in District 8. I may as well be already somewhere far away; a world removed from the District 8 I know, where people's homes stay warm in the Winter. I do a lap, running my hand along the tops of the furniture as I go. Now that I've been forced into movement, I need to keep the momentum going. Stand still, move forever. Those are my only options now. In the end, that might be all it comes down to for me. 

I keep going, around and around with my hand over my chest, unable to pin down my heartbeat but feeling for it anyways. I'm not under any illusion that this could turn out to be a sick, realistic nightmare. It's something from a nightmare, but it's a living one. It's my real life. I wonder what people are saying outside. Who is she? She's a stick. She'll die in the Bloodbath for sure. All those kinds of things. They're probably right too. 

My thoughts vanish in a flash, driven out by the click of a lock, and the creak of the big, heavy door being pushed open. My parents are here, and two of my sisters, the eldest ones. We stand, for a moment, looking at each at opposite sides of the doorway, before rushing towards each other. For the first time since I was very, very young, I accept their affection openly, melting into their arms as my tears freefall. We stay like that, wrapped around each other tightly, for nearly a full minute. My mother pulls back first, and the rest follow. They look more at each other than they do at me. Even in the most dire of situations, my family are still my family; trying desperately to keep up the ruse that everything is fine, looking to one another for a cue.

Eventually, it's me who talks.

"I'll do my best. I'll do my best."

It's all I can think of to say. My mother turns her head. That's how I know she's crying. She's still determined not to let me see.

"Yes," says my eldest sister. She's twenty-five now. She's been safe for years, has been raising her own family. I can tell by the look on her face that this is the first time since her last Reaping that any of this has crossed her mind. The Reaping hasn't been real to her in years. I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake; in four years, it'll be her oldest child's name in the bowl. My other sister, whose child still has some years to go, is trying to get my mother together, quietly like I won't notice.

"Of course you will," says my father. He wraps his arm around me, and folds me into his chest. He squeezes tight, then lets me go. He holds onto my shoulders and looks me in the eyes. "You've always been great. You'll be great forever."

Even when I'm just a number? Just a name on a record of forgotten deaths?, I want to ask. But I can feel his hands shaking, so instead I force myself to smile and nod. I put my hands over his and crack open my lips and really, really smile, like I never do. Shabby teeth and all. My dad laughs, a bittersweet sound I don't think I've ever heard.

My mother, who's regained her composure enough, though the whites of her eyes are still red, comes back over. My sister stands at her shoulder, like she's holding her up. She hands me something I never expected -- her engagement ring. 

"Your dad gave me this, as soon as he found out I was pregnant that first time. I always knew I'd pass it onto one of you girls," she cuts herself off there. This isn't the situation she imagined. I almost laugh. I see now. They all -- my parents, my sisters, their partners -- managed to convince themselves that the Games are something that happen to other people, not the Jeons.

"Thank you, Mom," I say, slipping the ring on my finger. It's a tiny bit loose, but it's fine. It's more than fine. Right now, it's everything.

The Peacekeepers swing the door open again without knocking.

"It's time to go. Come on." 

I'm like my family in some respects. None of us are the type to cause trouble. Reluctantly, they leave, each of them giving me one last squeeze. I don't even know what to do. After my family leave, all of them with their heads nearly turned backwards on their way out the door, the Peacekeepers tell me five minutes. 

I can't help thinking that my family should have put up more of a fight. The metal on my finger feels cold, cold, cold.